


A Proud and Bitter Crown

by Euryale000



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euryale000/pseuds/Euryale000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A.U. Remember how, on top of Mount Doom, Sam takes pity on Gollum and doesn’t kill him even though he wants to and Gollum has served his purpose and all? Well, in this world, Sam doesn’t have that pang of conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Proud and Bitter Crown

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I wrote this approximately a million years ago. It was on some archives that I don't think exist anymore. I came across it in my folder of ancient fic and figured I'd share.
> 
> 2) I should probably make sure that you know that Galadriel, Elrond, and Gandalf keep the three Elven Rings of Power. Frodo and Sam know perfectly well that Galadriel has one, even if they skipped that bit in the movie. Also, since she’s rather randomly wearing her Ring at that time, I’m operating under the principle that the Three wear their Rings all the time, they just don’t use them and those who don’t know to look for the Rings don’t notice that they are being worn. I mean, would there really be any safe place to keep these rings other than on the bearer’s person? (And where would Gandalf keep his, anyways?)

_“Don’t kill us,” [Gollum] wept. “Don’t hurt us with nassty cruel steel! Let us live, yes, live just a little longer. Lost lost! We’re lost. And when Precious goes we’ll die, yes, die into the dust.” He clawed up the ashes of the path with his long fleshless fingers. “Dusst!” he hissed._  
Sam’s hand wavered. His mind was hot with wrath and the memory of evil. It would be just to slay this treacherous, murderous creature, just and many times deserved; and also it seemed the only safe thing to do.  
[…]  
Then Frodo stirred and spoke with a clear voice, indeed with a voice clearer and more powerful than Sam had ever heard him use, and it rose above the throb and turmoil of Mount Doom, ringing in the roof and walls.  
“I have come,” he said. “But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!”  
\- The Return of the King (J.R.R. Tolkien, HarperCollins, 2001, pgs 263, 265) 

****

Sam’s eyes widened in horror as Frodo spoke. A terrible light began to radiate around Frodo’s small frame. Sam shook his head in disbelief, “No. NO! Mr. Frodo! Cast away the ring!” This drew Frodo’s attention and the eyes that he turned on Sam were full of pity for such a frail creature who could not see the entirety of his plan, the peace and freedom that it would bring. “Oh, Sam!” he said as a small condescending smile twisted his lips. And then he turned away, casting his eyes towards Barad Dur and, with one confident gesture, slipping the ring over his finger.

The Dark Presence had indeed become aware of him. His haughty claim had brought the full force of Sauron’s attention to bear, focusing on none but him. A great cry rose out of the Dark Tower, invoking such anguish, such fury, such horrible power, that all across the fields of battle, men dropped their arms. Even orcs threw up their hands to cover their ears. They knew better than the men what the Dark Lord’s rage could mean.

Aragorn looked up in that moment and saw a great shadow rise from Barad Dur. His blood began to run chill in his veins. All that they had won their way through, all this death, and Frodo had failed. Sauron had felt his presence at last. Their quest had been foolish from the start; the world was destined to founder in darkness forever. Aragorn stood still as stone, forgetting the wound on his left arm, forgetting the mauled orc begging for death at his feet, feeling his will to continue seep out of every pore. All eyes turned towards Mordor.

Sam was blinded by the ethereal light that surrounded his master’s shimmering form. It filled his vision, leaving room for nothing else. Deprived of that sense, the smell of Gollum’s stinking, putrid blood filled his mind and twisted his gut. The blackish gunk still clung to his fingers and dripped off his blade. He thought he would faint if it were not for the compelling beauty that Frodo commanded, even in this moment. A sullied purity in that fascinated and mesmerized Sam even as his body convulsed as if it could expel the admiration and fascination that consumed it. 

A sickening Shape began to take form in the corner of Sam’s vision. A dark form that drew nearer and nearer. A menacing being that threatened doom, despair and absolute annihilation. Waves of dizzying drunken incomprehensible resignation washed over Sam. In a minute, this horror wouldn’t matter. But then Frodo held up his hand towards the encroaching shadow and the light surrounding him intensified. A flash came, which caused a sense of wonder and doom to come upon the far away warriors on both sides. Sam was paralyzed and could do naught but watch as the Shadow took on monstrous forms, now a flaming Balrog, now a writhing Dragon, now the huge Maian form that Sauron had once been able to claim and control. Frodo stood unwavering, arm outstretched against all of this and Sauron was caught in the brilliant web of Frodo’s amplified will. At last the dark cloud formed itself into an enormous gruesome bloody face and screamed again in frustration, anger, and finally, defeat. The particles that made up this cloud rained down upon Mordor and sank through the charred earth to the dank prison that awaited the Dark Lord there.

On the field of Battle, Gandalf suddenly gave a great cry and swung out with his staff towards the forces of Mordor. His allies took up the call and in one strangled voice; the forces of Gondor screamed their wrath and bestowed oblivion upon their enemies. Throats were slit, shorn members strewed the field, and black iron-tinged blood ran like water over the plain. The orcs, southerlings and easterlings had lost their will to fight. Their captains were useless, they had no leadership, no organizing principle governed them and they were soon defeated. Murdered all, except those that fled, bearing tales back into their own countries.

The morning following the great battle woke to splendid sunshine over a soft cleansing rain. Sam awoke with a feeling of cobwebs in his mouth and a dull throbbing in his head. When he finally managed to open his eyes he saw that Frodo was looking down kindly at him. He moved his lips to ask “Why?” but no sound came from them. Frodo scooped him up as if he weighed no more than a feather, but Sam did not have time to be struck by the incongruity of this, for then it seemed that the mountains that ringed Mordor were drawing steadily nearer and he could see piles of bodies being prepared for either burial or the pyre. He closed his eyes to shut this out and the wind strayed steadily through his hair and past his temples. When he finally found the courage to open his eyes, he felt dizzy and ill.

He and Frodo were perched atop a mountain, or perhaps just a great hill, and Frodo set him down lightly. Sam collapsed into the grass. He did not have the force to keep himself upright, he felt too drained, emotionally and physically. He was little more than an empty shell, but was only vaguely aware of feeling that that was the case.

Frodo sat down to wait. He knew that they would come to him. They had no choice. He absently stroked his fingers through Sam’s hair as he watched the goings-on on the field below with complete and utter detachment. It meant nothing to him that his young cousin had been crushed under the stony weight of a troll and was now being laid out beside the fallen of Gondor by a tearful, battle-stained elf that resembled someone that he once knew.

He knew how to be patient. They would perceive his presence soon. And with that comforting weight around his finger, the wait would not seem long.

****

“She is coming.” Frodo stated simply.

Sam looked up and thought he saw a familiar star graze the earth, growing brighter and moving towards them from the north. He felt a growing sense of dread at this sight, but dared not speak.

As if this star were a kindling spark, a second point of light flared on the horizon and, so very slowly, came to join the first. Sam could feel the days sliding by but was paralyzed against all action. He could only observe and despair.

Commotion on the field had nearly come to a halt. The fallen had been dealt with and mounds of reeking flame rose to the sky. The living had been gathered and most were now fit for transportation. No one had come for them, that had registered in Sam’s mind. But, they had not been left behind either. The forces of Gondor were mobilized but did not move. They appeared to be as transfixed as he was-- waiting. Waiting.

Sam leaned his head on Frodo’s knee, drifting between exhausted sleep and anguished wakefulness, lulled into calm by Frodo’s soft words at his ear. Even as those words soothed, they set a seed of worry in his mind. He had always been the one to care for his beloved master. It was not right that their roles should be reversed. The sudden strength that he felt in Frodo frightened him. Frodo had not even been able to walk at the end of their journey. The force that seemed to emanate from him now was unnatural at best.

A thought occurred to Sam. “Why can I see you?” he asked.

“Because I wish to be seen.” Replied Frodo. “Galadriel is a fool. It is the easiest thing in the world to control, once you’ve decided to do it. Her reluctance and cowardice have cost many lives.” His face set with anger. “The burden comes to me again, and I will bear it. But, they will *not* scorn me for taking up the responsibility that they all so selfishly refused. Not when I have accomplished what they could not, would not. We will rebuild the world for the better.” Frodo’s fingers clenched in Sam’s hair and Sam winced. 

And as the two lights approached and passed the encampment on the edge of the field, a third star kindled and Frodo gasped. “Gandalf! I wouldn’t have guessed…” the lines of his face hardened still more. Sam could see the tension in his jaw and the trembling of his chin. His own brow creased with worry. No good could come of this.

****

With the dawn of the following day, four figures mounted the great hill to where Sam and Frodo sat still as stone. As the figures drew nearer and their faces became clearer, Sam could see their emotions, ranging from sorrow to rage, and he tried to set his own face so that it would not betray the conflict between dreadful fear and fierce loyalty that raged within him.

Galadriel’s white robe was torn, the hem muddied, and a spatter of blood marred the perfection of her features. The call had been strong enough that she had not paused a moment after razing Dol Guldur. The strength of her will, great as it was, was not enough to resist.

Elrond’s face betrayed a helpless fury. His eyes flashed, but not a muscle did he move against the calm and steady progression of the small group to this foreboding summit.

Gandalf was marked by a deep crippling sorrow. They had come so far. Evil was in hiding; it had not been destroyed. That he knew. 

Aragorn was with them, star of Elendil upon his brow, but he seemed very small next to these great and powerful personages. Frodo had never thought of the word small to describe him before, but now it was all that fit. He was wary and his dismay, upon perceiving Frodo and Sam, shone on his face.

“You have come.” Said Frodo. “Finally.”

“What have you done, Frodo?” asked Gandalf.

“I have taken up the charge that you were all unwilling to burden yourself with.” He said, bitterly.

“There is no charge!” shouted Elrond. “Its destruction is the only answer, you know that! Why have you not destroyed it?”

“That was a fool’s mission! There is no destruction, don’t you see? You do not understand. You cannot understand. Only with time does one come to understand.” Frodo began to twist the ring around his finger. “The fire would have done nothing. Evil cannot be destroyed. It can only be harnessed, held in thrall. And as none of you would commit yourselves to be its warden, I shall. What you would have had me do would only have released it, loosed its ties to the material that binds it!” Frodo shook his ringed fist at them and ill-defined tears shone in his eyes. “It is the only way! The only way!”

Sam reached his hand out and took the fingers of Frodo’s other hand in his own, willing a kind of calm to his master.

Frodo shook himself free of Sam’s grasp. “And you,” he stood and glared accusingly at Galadriel, “what do you have to say? What recriminations do you have for me? You were the most powerful being in Middle Earth! With power comes responsibility! WHAT EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE FOR YOUR NEGLIGANCE?” Galadriel flinched at his words and his tone.

“I showed you what I would have become. The Dark and Terrible Queen that I long ago locked away in the deepest dungeon of my mind would have consumed me. You do not want to know what she would have done to you.” Galadriel drew herself up tall and straight, regal composure covering her fear. Words were all that she had. 

“You. Lie.” Spat Frodo. His hand flew out as if to slap her face, but of course the movement fell short as Galadriel was standing several feet away from him. Nonetheless, she collapsed to her knees as if all of the air had been knocked from her lungs. Her fingers clawed at the earth and she tried to push herself back to her feet but another violent gesture from Frodo sent her sprawling down the hill. Aragorn turned in disbelief to see her coughing and retching against the grass. He went to help her up and they returned to this strange audience. Aragorn kept one arm firmly about her waist.

“I am glad that the ring did not fall into any more powerful hands than yours, Hobbit. You are too weak to do the damage any of us might have done.” 

Frodo’s eyes flashed and Galadriel sank through Aragorn’s grasp, hands clutching at her body as she writhed in pain. Tears started to Sam’s eyes, but he could not be sure that they were not sparked by an element of awe. He raised a hand to Frodo’s shoulder, taking his attention away from the Elf Queen who began gulping breaths of fresh air in relief.

Frodo dragged a hand across his brow and spoke laboriously. “We will work together. We will work for Peace; we will work for Good. We will banish the evil in the south and the east; the evil that works against our peoples, our lands. No more shall they make war on Gondor, nor Rohan, nor the Elfhomes… nor the Shire.” He added quietly. “We will keep them safe.”

The hill trembled. All the earth shook as if the laughter of a black mirth were rising up from its deepest entrails. A murder of crows rose from some undergrowth farther up the mountain and cackled up to the sky as it flew away into the distance.

Elrond seethed. “And if we refuse?”

“You know very well that you have no choice. You cannot shirk your duties forever. You have only delayed your responsibility, Lord Elrond, and in doing so you have lost the luxury of choice. Orcs would be tearing down the walls of Rivendell right this minute if I had not taken away their will to do so. Your people need your protection. It is their right. You cannot deny them what it is in your power to give. You cannot betray them like that.”

“To refuse your help is no betrayal, and I am held by no bond such as these three are.” Said Aragorn. 

Frodo looked at him curiously as if just now fully registering his presence for the first time. He smiled. It was not a comforting smile in any way. “You do not realize the danger that looms still over your people, my friend,” said Frodo. Dark shapes swirled in the air behind where Frodo stood with Sam at his side, becoming more, then less, distinct, dipping behind rocks, behind trees, flirting with the open air. Dark shadows. Nine of them. “No one’s safety can be assured if we do not move as one. One broken thread can cause the garment to fall into tatters. Trust me, Aragorn. You trusted me to bear the ring before, that trust has no reason to falter now. I bear it still. For us all.”

“Let us leave this place,” said Frodo, after a minute of silence. “You shall go before, as vanguard, but we shall move together and stand together against those who refuse to understand.” 

Gandalf’s steps were leaden as his feet worked against the wisdom of his heart, against the will of every fiber of his being. Slowly the company regained the camp of their allies.

****

The four ring bearers passed through the camp like a mist, inciting action only in their wake. Aragorn barely had the presence of mind to bark orders to his captains.

“We move NOW! To Minas Tirith!”

The soldiers seemed to have been startled from a dream. For days they had been ready but no order came; and to be roused from that stasis by a procession of elves and halflings enveloped in an eerie shimmer of light left them uneasy, but they would not question Aragorn’s command.

Sam lagged a little behind the others and jumped when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Merry’s tear stained face crumple before being pulled in to a fierce hug.

“He’s gone, Sam. He’s gone. Gimli found him, and…what’s happened, Sam? What has happened to our world? And what are we supposed to do now? I don’t know how I’ll go on. I can’t stop crying.”

Sam smoothed his hands over Merry’s back and murmured soothing nonsense to him, then tried to pull Merry into step beside him. They were falling too far behind, about to be caught up in the mass of soldiers. Sam did not want to lose sight of Frodo.

As if Frodo could hear that thought, he stopped, suddenly, and turned back to look at Sam and Merry. His gaze was cold and distant, drifting over Merry without the slightest sign of concern for the hobbit’s obvious distress, nor even any sign of recognition. This worried Sam.

“Come on,” said Frodo. Sam placed his hand at the small of Merry’s back and urged him forwards.

The journey to Minas Tirith seemed brief. All minds were too occupied with questions to register fatigue. All minds except Frodo’s, thought Sam. Frodo seemed entirely untroubled by doubt and as the miles fell behind them, that calm and confidence seemed to spread into Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf. Sam didn’t like it one bit.

****

Aragorn could no longer talk to Gandalf, could no longer reason with him. Frodo’s projects for the quelling of the disquiet in the East and South seemed to have taken root in his mind. Gandalf had always been so rational, so in love with life, so committed to protecting it that Aragorn could not comprehend how he could even entertain the idea that massive destruction could possibly bring peace, how that peace could justify itself in the face of the means used to obtain it. No, he knew exactly why Gandalf was acting as he was, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

He would not accept it. He couldn’t. Every day Frodo shut himself up with the Three and, usually, Sam and Merry as well, organizing, plotting; and Aragorn would wait. Wait by the door for them to emerge, which they inevitably did as the twilight shadows fell. He had watched Elrond lose his anger little by little, day by day. Aragorn could not tell whether the Elrond he saw now was only a shell of the man he had known his whole life, or whether something fundamental had truly changed inside him. He shuddered to consider that the last might be true. At the beginning, Elrond would speak to him as he left the council, troubling words insinuating a dark violence which lay hidden. Aragorn had never sensed any such thing from any of these people before and it made him afraid. The silence that governed Elrond now was more disturbing.

He wanted to hate Frodo, but remembering how Frodo stood against the Ringwraiths at Weathertop and remembering the suffering that had been inflicted on the Hobbit there, Aragorn could not believe that Frodo could give up and join with the power that he had so valiantly fought against, and so Aragorn could not bring himself to hate.

Galadriel would leave the room crushed, more and more so every day. But if he should happen to see her later, under the light of the stars, she would appear beautiful and terrible and powerful and all the things that he knew she was. People would quail and run away at her approach. She drew strength from watching that happen. 

Aragorn feared for what Frodo was planning. He could get no information from any of the Three. They would only speak cryptically and in warnings. Sam had all but fallen mute. He had seemed in a way transfixed ever since that day on the mountain, but Aragorn could see a hint of fear behind his eyes and took comfort in that, knowing by it that Sam had not yet come under dark influence.

The Three would often wander together through the city, appraising with their eyes. Their breath was cold and they moved like wraiths, like puppets pulled by strings. Aragorn could sense something coiled up within them but was unsure whether it was revolt against their fettered condition or a welling of will to accomplish whatever nefarious task they were being given. 

Aragorn did not know where to begin. He could not oppose such powerful beings and hope to survive. To die for the sake of making a point would be meaningless and less than useless. Perhaps he should speak to those who remained of the fellowship. He hesitated to bring them into a situation which was assuredly hazardous, but he found himself unable to act and something had to be done. They had come through so much together; they could not fail him now at the end. He would speak to them, he should not be afraid. Tomorrow he would speak. Tomorrow.

****

Merry’s misery deepened as the days passed. Sam did what he could to raise his friend’s spirits, but his own spirit was not of any more lighthearted humour. Misery changed to resignation and soon Merry spoke no more frequently than Sam. They would sit side by side, the silent immobile witnesses of the worst possible corrupting effects of Power. 

Merry was the first to crumble under the weight of the things he observed, being always at Frodo’s side as he was, but being unable to act in any way. He needed to leave before he was crushed into dust by it. 

“I’m going to go back to the Shire, Sam.”

“Are you?”

“He’ll let me. He can’t deny me that. It’s such a little, simple thing! To be home again, that’s all that I want. I’ll water me and Pippin’s apple tree, the one we planted just after…” Merry broke off, his face bittersweet with the memory. “There’s no one else to take care of it. You should come with me, Sam. Your family would love to see you, I’m sure, and I could hire you if you want. Brandy Hall’s grounds have never been as well looked after as they should. I would give you free reign; you could make it your own. And we’d at least be together. Even if no one else ever understands all that we’ve seen and done, we will and we won’t be alone. Please come with me, Sam.”

“He needs me…”

“Your family needs you.”

“I have the feeling that it would get worse if I left.” Sam couldn’t bring himself to meet Merry’s eyes. “I don’t think that he could do it alone.”

“All the more reason to go.”

“That’s not what I mean…” He broke off as Frodo came into the room, pushing the heavy wooden door shut behind himself. 

“Where is it that you’re going, Meriadoc?” asked Frodo, eyebrow raised skeptically.

Merry pulled himself up straight and forced his gaze to meet Frodo’s “I want to go home, Frodo. I want to go back to the Shire.” His hands clenched in anticipation of the ire he knew would be forthcoming and he held Frodo’s eyes firmly with his own, unveiling the threat behind them as much as he dared. 

Frodo cocked his head and looked at him with a deadly calm. “Why, then, you must go. I’m sure that arrangements can be made. Immediately, if you wish.” Frodo stepped away from the door. “May your journey be for the best.”

Merry moved to the door. When he reached it, he stretched a hand back out towards Sam, beckoning him to come with him. Sam stared at his proffered hand for a long moment as conflicting emotions flickered across his face. His eyes flitted to Frodo’s immobile features, then lit back on Merry. He did not move. Merry heaved a sigh and turned and left the room. He went directly to the stables to find a mount to carry him home. He needed to leave this place of madness without delay, and if Sam wasn’t sensible enough to get away from Frodo’s poisonous presence, that was no longer Merry’s concern.

Merry would never reach the Shire, Frodo decided. He couldn’t. The less that the hobbits knew about the war raging outside their borders, the better. If Merry told them all that transpired, there would be panic, there would be fear, and there would be distrust, even of Frodo. That would cause more unnecessary suffering and death. If they resisted his plans, there would have to be death. It was better that they not know, or that they hear it from him once the plans were in motion. Merry would never reach the Shire. The orcs would find him first.

Frodo nodded to himself and turned to Sam. “And would you leave too?” he asked. “You have been offered everything you’ve said you’ve wanted. Peace, quiet, a stable existence back home in the Shire, a beautiful garden. Will you leave me for that?”

Sam hesitated, and a war began brewing in his breast. Frodo’s piercing eyes looked into his soul, straight through him, as if his body were merely a vessel for his thoughts. Of course, Frodo saw the conflict’s source.

On the southern edge of Hobbiton, under the strange golden light of first evening, Rosie Cotton knelt, as had become her custom, in the tall soft grass just outside the line that marked off her safe familiar world. She dared not venture further into the wilderness beyond. Six whole months was too long a span of time. Something had happened, she knew it. He would not be coming back. She had hated Fatty Bolger for bringing news of his departure from Crickhollow, but now she felt merely alone and empty. She let the silver tears run down her face as they did every evening, their cold moisture was a comforting, numbing balm. For perhaps the hundredth time, she supplicated the unfeeling earth to open and swallow her up. To her surprise, but not entirely to her chagrin, this time it did.

Sam’s heart began to glow in his chest, feeling oddly whole. The part of him that had been fighting this went still and he stretched out his hand and laid it across Frodo’s. Frodo smiled indulgently and laced their fingers together.

****

Sam wandered the dark halls of the great dwelling in search of something, maybe merely a distraction from the sick feeling that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. The sense of completeness that he had experienced when he was last in Frodo’s company had proved fleeting. The dread was returning and he was wondering if it would really have been worse to leave with Merry. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what that meant.

The hand that clapped onto his shoulder made him jump. He spun wildly to see Legolas holding up one gentle hand in a gesture to quiet him. Legolas threw a furtive glance down the hallway and pulled Sam through an open doorway just to their left. In the dim light, Sam could see Aragorn and Gimli’s grave faces. 

“We need to stop this, Sam.” Said Aragorn. “It’s only playing with him.”

“I know,” replied Sam. “But it’s so hard to remember that when he’s standing in front of you. He thinks he’s doing everything for the best. He doesn’t see…”

“Of course he doesn’t.” Legolas interjected. “That is the nature of the Ring. It twists its wearer’s intentions into evil deeds, but the intentions can easily remain pure and good. That is the nature of its treachery. He is blinded, he cannot see the destruction that his so-called solution will cause, the evil and hate that it will engender amongst all the peoples of Middle Earth!”

“But, the question is, what is to be done about it?” asked Gimli, turning his coalfire eyes to Sam’s face. “Since Merry went, you’re the only one that he lets near him. You are the one who is in a position to act. Gandalf, Elrond and the Lady cannot be trusted. They have become extensions of his will.”

“It is so hard to watch that transformation. Every day they slip further and further away. Every day he slips further away.” Sam’s eyes fell to his hands, which he kept tightly clasped in his lap. “And, sometimes, I wonder whether I am still independent of his will.”

“You are, Sam.” Said Legolas, laying his hand on Sam’s arm. “Otherwise we would not trust you to be here. You would not be allowing us to have this conversation. We might still be able to destroy the Ring before it destroys him.”

“We might be able to destroy the Ring before it destroys everything, but I am not entirely sure that it has not already destroyed Frodo.” Aragorn’s voice came low, just enough to be audible. 

“What are you saying, Aragorn? The evil might hold him, but our Frodo is still there. Just hidden. You are mistaken.” Legolas instinctively came to his friend’s defense.

“Am I?” questioned Aragorn. “You did not hear the accusations he threw in the faces of the three. You did not see the void in his eyes, hear how hollow his voice has become!” Sam swallowed hard and his face set as he tried to deny to himself the truth of the picture that Aragorn painted. “And I am sure that I have not seen a fraction of the signs, the smallest part of his suffering.” Aragorn’s regard lighted on Sam. Legolas’ and Gimli’s followed it. “We cannot take personal concern for Frodo at this point. Much larger things are at stake.”

“What are you proposing? He is our *friend*, Aragorn! We cannot just discount him in this matter!” Retorted Legolas.

“I don’t know! I would rip the damned thing from his finger openly if I had not seen how he deals with dissention and still thought that such a thing would even be possible.” The image of Frodo’s diabolical calm and Galadriel’s twisted face as spasms of phantom pain wracked her body was etched into Aragorn’s mind. Only Sam understood the vehemence of Aragorn’s reply.

“You mean to say that there is nothing to be done.”

“I don’t know!”

“Please! Stop!” shouted Gimli. “We are accomplishing nothing! The fact remains that none of us can get close enough to take it. Except you, Sam.”

Again all eyes turned on him. Sam had drawn in on himself, going very quiet and still. “He may hold everyone in some sort of terrific awe, but I am still King of this place,” Said Aragorn slowly. “I have given orders. You have free reign here, Sam. You will not be kept out of any place. *Any* place.” 

Sam’s eyes were somewhat glazed and his skin had come over all tingly with fear and anticipation. The word “How…” escaped his lips but he thought he knew. He did not dare let his thoughts form themselves into words. Not even just in his head because they were horrifying enough without that concrete form. He rose slowly and, nodding incoherently, he backed up to the door then pushed it open and slipped out into the darkness. Only then did he allow the silent tears to slide down his cheeks, but since he was still fighting back the words, he was not sure why he was crying.

****

The steel burned cold against Sam’s side, through its sheath, through the rough cloth that clothed him, imprinting its image on his skin even as he tried to put its existence from his mind. The flagstones were cold against his feet. The air hung chill and damp about him and he moved blindly through it. The door presented an insurmountable obstacle. Huge wooden planks, heavy and dark, pocked with huge iron nails, the mass of the black knocker mocking him. He stood before that door for half an hour. An hour? Two? His blood trickled slowly through his veins and he laboured to keep his breathing even, to keep his mind from screaming out.

The door seemed to open of its own volition, but he supposed he must have pushed it open. His legs carried him into the room and to the side of that soft white bed. Moonlight floated through the window and caressed the serene face of the one asleep. His lips were parted and he breathed deeply and evenly, beautiful in slumber. Sam’s hand went to the hilt and he tried to steel his resolve. He drew the blade, but the way that the light glinted off of it made him hesitate. That this cruel knife should mar that soft perfect flesh...

He wasn’t wearing the ring! Sam noticed. It was on the chain around his neck, not on his finger! He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought. What kind of rest would one find in the sleep of that altered and shadowed world? 

Maybe, Sam thought, maybe if he could just take it…maybe... 

Frodo’s brow furrowed and his face contorted. The effect of some lurid dream. Beads of sweat began to form on Sam’s face. That moment of hesitation seemed to have stretched into an eternity. Coming to himself again, Sam resheathed the dagger and reached towards Frodo’s throat.

His arms were too short; he could not reach. “You can save us, *all* of us, Samwise. Do it.” he said to himself. He climbed as softly and silently as he could into that bed and reached for the golden thing at Frodo’s neck. His fingers brushed against Frodo’s skin and his breath caught. He couldn’t touch it. It burned, it froze him; he told himself that he had worn it around his own finger before, but he couldn’t touch it now. He couldn’t.

Frodo’s face twisted again and Sam reached out to smooth away his master’s pain. He wrapped his arms around Frodo’s frail body and held his friend tight against his chest. He didn’t realize that he had fallen asleep until harsh beams of sunlight woke him. Frodo stirred, turned to him, and smiled sleepily. Frodo did not question Sam’s presence in the slightest; a fact which relieved him, but which sent stabs of guilt through his heart just the same.

****

“I couldn’t do it, Aragorn. I couldn’t…”

“What do you mean, Sam?” Legolas asked quietly. The four companions had been sitting together in the small dark room since an hour past sundown in a menaced silence.

“I was right there. It was right there. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t touch it, I couldn’t take it… even after I’d made up my mind.” Sam started loosening his blade and re-sheathing it compulsively under the table where the others could not see. “The moonlight was terrible. And his face… I couldn’t do it.”

Gimli sighed his frustration. “If you cannot get it, Master Hobbit, who can, please tell me? You know how much is depending on you.”

“I know.”

“Maybe we can get word to one of the other Istari.” Said Legolas. “There are others. They are not known to me, but they must not be impossible to reach.”

“We would have to trust that they have not also fallen under some manner of dark power. I do not know how we can be assured of that.” Aragorn’s voice held little hope.

Sam began to dig in to the top of the wooden table with the point of his dagger. He seemed quite entranced by the little pit he was digging which grew larger and larger. The company sat in silence.

“You do not look well, Sam.” Ventured Legolas when the silence had become nearly unbearable.

“Of course I’m not well.” Spat Sam, planting his knife deep into the tabletop. “The world is falling apart, two of my closest friends are gone already, the third is swiftly loosing a battle with madness,” Sam clenched his eyes shut and drew the back of a hand forcefully across his brow. “and I am powerless! I am unable to act, unable to protect him. That has always been my place, Legolas. I do not know what else to do.”

“You can protect him.” Said Gimli slowly as he watched Sam fiddling with the knife and began to understand his train of thought. He glanced quickly at the others but they did not seem to be disquieted by, or even to notice, the uncharacteristic violence of the Hobbit’s nervous activity. He felt a numbing as realization dawned. Perhaps Sam was right in his choice of method, and if the others were too blind to realize, then it fell to Gimli to speak and encourage. “You can keep that Thing from gaining a further hold on him. Only you. It may be difficult, it may seem the worst way, but if it’s the only way… who is to say which fate is worse?” Aragorn shot Legolas a look of distressed confusion. Gimli continued “You have the power to do what is right. You are stronger than you think.”

Sam stared back at him with desolate eyes.

Aragorn swallowed hard. “I think we should go to sleep now.” He said. “Maybe tomorrow will bring more wisdom. As long as we four stay committed to Its destruction, there is hope for Middle Earth.” Legolas rested his hand on Aragorn’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze, his expression showing no more hope than Aragorn’s voice.

Sam wrenched his dagger from the wood and re-sheathed it vengefully. He stood abruptly and shoved his chair back into its place with a grating sound. His dead eyes were ringed with something that might have been anger. The word “cowards” which he muttered as he pushed his way out of the room and flung the door shut behind himself was so low that only Legolas’ keen ears caught it.

****

The same nightmare again. That same chill, that same horrible door. He almost thought it creaked on its hinges as it swung open this time. That same caressing moonlight, casting grim shadows on the hollows of Sam’s eyes. He was empty. He was void. The ever-engulfing void. He had gone numb long ago and moved like a puppet on strings pulled by the far away entity that was his mind.

His body crossed to the window to pull the curtain and shut out that accusing exposing light. It would not be entirely extinguished and insisted on pouring through the crack between the curtain and window frame. The light danced as the curtain billowed in the breeze. Sam hated it. 

Frodo was sleeping fitfully, Sam could tell. He had rolled onto his side just at the edge of the bed and again his face was reacting to the images he saw behind his eyes, scrunched tight shut.

“I mustn’t wake him,” thought Sam. “He must never know… he must never know.”

Sam bent over Frodo’s sleep-stricken face. He brushed back the dark curls and laid a soft kiss upon Frodo’s forehead. His own face creased in anguish as he righted himself. 

“Sam.” Frodo’s lips soundlessly formed his name.

Sam worked quickly and it was with blood-stained hands that he took the Ring into his possession. His body heaved in revolt. Moonlight steals colours, but the rivers of scarlet that stained the pristine white sheets, coverlets, pillows, would not be muted. 

No tears could wash that colour away so Sam did not shed any. 

His fingertips stroked dark, wet lines one last time over Frodo’s fine features, avoiding the gaping, damning wound, they trailed over his chest and down his arms to arrange them respectably. 

Sam pressed his clenched fists to his eyes, his nails digging in to his palms. He ran one hand feverishly through his hair as the other pressed against his mouth to keep the sobs and the screams from escaping. He did not care what marks he left on his own body. He did not notice that half of the blood that was now forming a dull sickening crust on his hands was his own.

He stole outside like the basest thief even though he knew very well that no guard in this place would stop him. He had done only the duty that the others had not dared to do. The moonlight soothed him now. He had no desire to encounter the scorching yellow face. Nighttime suited him; shadow suited him. He found it amazing how frenzied determination can shorten a journey; even when an insidious little voice is whispering sweet promises in your ear about everything that could be yours if you would just go back the way you came.

The Anduin seemed but a blue ribbon to him, the ring of mountains but a collection of molehills. He knew his way, whether by memory or intuition or something else, and he quickly reached his goal. Whether the dangers encountered on the previous journey had been removed or whether he simply did not notice their presence this time was unimportant to him. He could not now be dissuaded from this task by anything, so long as he kept to the dark places and did not have to look at himself in the harsh sunlight.

****

“There is nothing you can offer me!” Sam’s cry echoed off the mountain walls in the deadly still.

“Nothing! There is nothing that I want from you!”

Heat rose up around him from the pit of fire, tangling his limbs and slowing his movements.

“There is nothing that you can give me!”

Tears started to his eyes and sobs threatened at the back of his throat.

“You have already taken it all away. There is nothing. Nothing.”

Sam reached his hand out to drop the Ring into the inferno that swirled and bubbled now far below. His fist was clenched tight and shook. His whole body trembled. The molten glow deformed Sam’s shadow and threw monstrous shapes on to the wall behind him. He stood rooted to the spot for a long moment, until the sweat ran down his face and his eyes burned and his skin blistered. His breathing gradually steadied and he closed his eyes as he found his calm. He found his arm bending back towards his body and he held his tight fist against his chest as if he could absorb the thing it held. 

“I must follow. No fear, Samwise Gamgee! Who is to say which fate is the worse? This is as good as any, and I will follow.”

An eagle plunging from the sky to extinguish the life of some creature below never showed more grace nor more quiet determination in its dive. The liquid flame leapt to meet him and, in that moment, a shattering shriek rang out over all of Middle Earth, deafening and terrifying in its intensity. The battlements of Mordor cracked and foundered, crushing down to the black earth from which now rose tongues of fire and from which oozed drops of blood and all of this horror mingled for a moment until the very earth shuddered and heaved and the accursed place was leveled and swallowed up by the soot and rock and dirt that fell upon it.

And the world was changed and remade.


End file.
